under such great need of a restorative, that he presently went
away, to take a bath of sea-water, leaving the young lady and me
sitting by a point of rock, and probably presuming - but that you
will say was a pardonable indulgence in a luxury - that she would
praise him with all her heart.

She did, poor thing! With all her confiding heart, she praised him
to me, for his care of her dead sister, and for his untiring
devotion in her last illness. The sister had wasted away very
slowly, and wild and terrible fantasies had come over her toward
the end, but he had never been impatient with her, or at a loss;
had always been gentle, watchful, and self-possessed. The sister
had known him, as she had known him, to be the best of men, the
kindest of men, and yet a man of such admirable strength of
character, as to be a very tower for the support of their weak
natures while their poor lives endured.

'I shall leave him, Mr. Sampson, very soon,' said the young lady;
'I know my life is drawing to an end; and when I am gone, I hope he
will marry and be happy. I am sure he has lived single so long,
only for my sake, and for my poor, poor sister's.'

The little hand-carriage had made another great loop on the damp
sand, and was coming back again, gradually spinning out a slim
figure of eight, half a mile long.

'Young lady,' said I, looking around, laying my hand upon her arm,
and speaking in a low voice, 'time presses. You hear the gentle
murmur of that sea?'